Chapter 94: Chapter 94: Inhibitors

Seven stared at him in the kind of silence that had ended wars and started them. Then his gaze dropped again to the faint swelling at Arion’s mouth, to the neat little mark that was almost obscene in its restraint.

“I think,” Seven said slowly, voice dangerously calm, “that your fiancé has better self-control than most of the men I’ve stitched back together.”

Arion’s mouth twitched, because of course it did. “Correct.”

Seven exhaled, wrote another line, and the stylus scratched across the tablet like it was personally offended.

“Bite: superficial. Cause: omega,” Seven muttered. Then, without looking up, “Out of spite.”

Arion lifted his brows. “You’re assuming.”

Seven finally looked up, eyes flat. “I’m diagnosing.”

Boreas thumped his tail once, as if confirming the accuracy of the chart.

Arion’s gaze flicked down to the dog for half a second, and there was the faintest softening around his eyes, so small it would have been missed by anyone who didn’t spend their life watching dominants lie through their posture.

Seven saw it anyway.

He set his tablet down with deliberate calm and stepped closer, hands going clinical. He took Arion’s chin again and angled his face toward the light, inspecting the bite with the thoroughness of a man trying not to develop a personal opinion.

“Open,” Seven ordered.

Arion opened his mouth.

Seven peered, unimpressed. “No tearing. No infection risk. No deeper tissue bruising. He didn’t even break the skin properly.”

Arion’s eyes narrowed. “Properly?”

Seven released Arion’s chin. “Yes. Properly. If an omega wanted to leave a mark, your lip would look worse.”

Arion’s voice was dry. “I’ll let him know he disappointed you.”

Seven’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare.”

Arion’s mouth curved faintly, and he had the audacity to look pleased about it.

Seven’s gaze sharpened like a blade. “That look. That exact look is why I asked if you bonded.”

Arion leaned back again, composed, the picture of princely calm. “We didn’t.”

“I know,” Seven said, and the words came out like reluctant acceptance. “Because if you had, you would be insufferable at breakfast for the rest of your life.”

Arion blinked. “I’m already insufferable.”

Seven didn’t deny it. He simply stared at Arion until the prince’s expression shifted into something almost innocent.

Seven picked up his tablet again and scribbled one more note, then paused as if the ink had tripped a different thought.

“Did he panic?” Seven asked, quieter now.

Arion’s eyes lifted. The amusement faded from his mouth, leaving something more peaceful behind. “No.”

Seven’s shoulders loosened by a fraction. “Did you?”

Arion’s gaze held his for a long beat, then – because Seven was not court and not a politician and not someone Arion needed to conquer – he answered honestly.

“Yes,” Arion said simply. “At first.”

Seven nodded once, the physician in him satisfied by the truth more than the prince in Arion.

“Any sign of pheromonal backlash?” Seven asked.

Arion’s eyes lowered briefly as he examined his body in the same way that a soldier would inspect his armor after a battle.

“No,” he said. “Not after.”

Seven’s stylus hovered. “Not after what?”

Arion’s mouth tightened faintly, like the answer irritated him for being true. “Not after he started releasing.”

Seven wrote that down with brisk precision, then looked up again. “How long did it take for the tremor to stop?”

Arion blinked once. “Minutes.”

Seven’s brows pulled together. “Minutes,” he repeated, like he didn’t like miracles when they made the rest of his work look inferior.

Arion’s expression remained flat. “He’s compatible.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Seven muttered, but he was already writing again.

His gaze slid over Arion with a quick, clinical sweep: pupils, skin tone, breathing pattern, the set of the shoulders, and the lack of that subtle bracing Arion usually carried even when he pretended to be fine.

“Any temperature spikes,” Seven asked, “increased sweating, nausea, or appetite crash?”

Arion answered without hesitation. “No.”

Seven’s eyes narrowed. “Any agitation when he stopped?”

Arion paused for half a second.

Seven’s stylus froze again, ready.

Arion’s tone stayed even. “He didn’t stop abruptly.”

Seven’s stare sharpened. “He tapered.”

Arion nodded once.

“Good,” Seven said, and the word landed like a grudging respect. “That’s how you avoid rebound.”

Arion’s eyes flicked up. “Rebound?”

Seven looked at him like Arion had personally offended the concept of medical education. “Your system is not a machine you can switch off. When an external pheromone source forces it into regulation, it can overshoot when the source disappears. That’s rebound. That’s when you go from calm to… feral.”

Arion’s mouth twitched. “I wasn’t feral.”

Seven’s brown eyes narrowed, sharp with the kind of irritation that came from knowing someone’s biology better than they wanted to admit. “Arion, I’m your physician and your friend. I have your history. You did go feral.”

Arion’s gaze held steady, unimpressed. “I didn’t attack anyone.”

Seven’s expression didn’t soften. “I’m not talking about teeth and throat, and you know it.”

“I’m maintaining my earlier statement,” Arion said, unbothered. “But yes, I was horny, if that’s what you’re trying to confirm.”

Seven stared at him like Arion had just poured acid on the concept of bedside manner.

“That,” Seven said slowly, “is not a clinical term.”

Arion’s mouth twitched. “It’s accurate.”

“It’s reductive,” Seven snapped, and then seemed to remember he was speaking to the Crown Prince and forced his tone back into something professional, if strained. “Arion. I’m not asking if you were in the mood. I’m telling you your body has a survival response. A specific one.”

Arion lifted his brows as if indulging the lecture. “Yes. You’ve said ’feral’ three times now. I’m aware.”

Seven’s jaw tightened. “Then stop pretending it’s a joke you can shrug off. Your rut threshold isn’t about desire; it’s about stabilization. Your system starts pushing you toward bond-securing behavior when it thinks you’re running out of time.”

Arion’s gaze didn’t waver. “I didn’t do anything.”

Seven’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t, because Dean was there.”

Arion blinked once. “Do you realize that even if Dean is stabilizing me, his presence is like the biggest temptation alive for me?”

Seven stilled. “Yes. I know.”

He looked like a man mentally flipping through a file he could recite from memory, matching symptom to cause with long familiarity.

“I’m increasing your inhibitor dose,” Seven said, already turning his stylus in his fingers like a decision made. “And we’re switching to injections.”

“Ugh.” Arion let his head fall back onto the sofa edge. “Fine.”

“Are you still afraid of needles?” Seven asked, a wicked smile pulling at his mouth like he’d been waiting years for this moment.

Arion didn’t move his head. “I want to see you taking intramuscular injections every day.”

Seven’s grin widened. “Oh, I do. It’s called ’being a physician with a life expectancy tied to royal stupidity.

’”

Arion’s lips twitched, barely. “Dramatic.”

“Accurate,” Seven corrected, and then, because he couldn’t help himself, he stepped closer and tapped the stylus against Arion’s knee like it was a gavel. “I’m afraid of you being unsupervised while your biology is trying to write policy.”

Arion opened one eye, looked at him, and shut it again. “Charming.”

Seven’s smile softened into something sharp. “I know.”

Boreas chose that moment to stand and wedge his big head between Seven’s thigh and Arion’s knee, tail wagging as if everyone was having a delightful morning and not negotiating pharmacological control measures.

Seven glanced down at him. “Your loyalties are questionable.”

Boreas blinked, unrepentant.

Arion’s hand drifted to Boreas’s head, fingers brushing once, absent and grounding. “He has taste.”

Seven snorted. “He has a single brain cell, and it belongs to Dean.”

Arion’s mouth twitched. “Relatable.”

Seven stared at him for a beat. “Don’t say things like that. It encourages the dog.”

Arion finally lifted his head, slow and long-suffering, as if suffering were the only dignified response to needles and physicians. “How often?”

“Daily for the first week,” Seven said briskly, already making notes, “then we reassess. You’ll just be less likely to—” his gaze flicked pointedly to Arion’s bitten lip “—make questionable life choices.”

Arion’s brows rose. “Questionable.”

Seven’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Questionable. Like letting your fiancé bite your mouth and then sitting here looking pleased about it while I attempt to do my job.”

Arion’s expression remained bland. “I was attacked.”

Seven’s stare turned lethal. “By an omega with restraint. Don’t insult me.”

Arion’s lips pressed together as if he was trying not to smile. It failed.

Seven pointed the stylus at him. “There. That. Stop that.”

Arion’s gaze flicked up, almost lazy. “You’re jealous.”

Seven choked. “I’m what?”

Arion’s tone stayed serene. “Jealous. You’re upset I’m finally stable and you didn’t get to be the hero.”

Seven took a long breath through his nose like he was counting to a number that wasn’t legal.

“I am upset,” Seven said slowly, “that my patient is acting like this is a comedy when it is, medically speaking, a disaster waiting for a compatible omega to leave the room.”

Arion’s eyes sharpened, a flicker of seriousness returning. “He won’t be in danger.”

Seven’s gaze held his. “Then take the injections.”

Arion leaned his head back again with exaggerated suffering. “If you bring a nurse, I will kill you.”

Seven’s eyes gleamed. “No nurse. I’m doing it.”

Arion’s eyes cracked open. “You enjoy this.”

“Yes,” Seven said, completely unapologetic. “You’d be amazed how few joys I get.”

Arion’s mouth twitched. “I’ll remember that at your funeral.”

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